Always Gold
by ffanon
Summary: She watches as he shifts before her, shoulders shifting as though he's settling into this moment, this life, this new found knowledge; and as he settles, a look a peace washes over him; relaxation at it's purest point, and she values him like this - so obviously bathing in his new found peace, after having deserved it for so long. Oneshots; Clara & the Doctor's newly formed family.
1. Clara, my Clara (Always Gold)

It was simple.

One second, he'd be standing; the next he was on the floor.

Well, maybe not that simple.

He'd gone to put his hand on the sofa (Because he needed some sort of physical support in that moment) and his hand had slid right over the top of it, failing to grip it completely and the rest of his body decided to follow that course of action; his feet caved out from under him, and he collapsed.

And it would have been simple if he was alone – but he wasn't, Clara was there (More specifically, she was on, well _by_, his left shoulder; her hand on his face, the other on said shoulder, shaking him gently and calling his name; which was a muffled and drained out noise to his ears) and she was the cause of his location; having fallen, and landed on the floor between the kitchen and living room of the Maitland's house.

"Doctor," It's a muddled; high pitch string of different octaves, drawn out and low.

"_Doctor._" Something snaps inside his ear and crackles; and suddenly it's clear, the noise bubbles and fills his head; the low growl of his name, filled with desperation and frustration, followed by a repeat a few seconds later; this time, a little more desperate.

"I'm alright." He manages to choke out after a few seconds; and this admission is followed by a soft sigh of relief on her part; and underneath him the floor creaks slightly as she draws back and sits up, her hand trailing along his face for a few seconds before vanishing completely, have retreated to her lap; but it's twin remains lightly on his shoulder.

He swallows and something churns in his throat – his thoughts are spinning; and the floor, even though he's _lying_ on it, threatens to vanish completely at any moment; feeling as though it's curving underneath his weight.

Like jelly.

He inhales – and his stomach gets a little tighter; forming little knots, that loosen just as quickly a few seconds later it's enough to make him nauseas, which doesn't help with the head spinning and the newly quick-sand floor.

"You're sure?" He finds himself asking – and then, finds himself imidetly de-rating himself for asking in the first place because of course she's _sure_, he's _sure_ and undoubtedly the TARDIS will be just as confident.

That is, if Clara ever sets foot in the TARDIS again – which, she may, or may not; it's completely up to her.

Even if the latter one makes him certain that he's going to need to find the nearest bin, because he's going to vomit.

The floor shifts again, followed by the gentle brush of fabric as she goes to stand. "Of course I'm sure," She admits after a few seconds of hesitation and he doesn't miss the way her voice is laced with hurt; just the barest hint, with a flickering flame of anger underneath; because, he had no right to ask – he should have trusted her judgment; and he does, trust her judgment – on this, on anything.

"Clara," He begins after a few seconds – a few seconds being closer to imidetly after the words leave her mouth, speaking as he pushes himself up onto his elbows, drawing his legs up and preparing to stand; all the while tilting his head up to look at her – shaking slightly, the barest hint of vibration in her shoulders; her arms crossed, fingers digging like talons into her elbows, a light frown etched into her features as she stares at the wall across from them.

She doesn't answer at first – she blinks instead, clears her throat softly; a noise that crackles and ends half way, and afterwards she blinks again; and he can see the flare in her eyes even from where he lays on the floor; the way they gloss over, and a light flickers and blazes in the deep; she's preparing herself, he realizes.

She thinks he's going to leave her – and if he's honest with himself; completely, and truly honest with himself – stripping down every layer of everything that makes up who and what he is; he had considered it, just for the barest hint of time; the beginning of a second, in the darkest and disgusting part of his mind; he had considered it, turning around, away from her and walking out the door; and of course, he had loathed himself by the time said second ended.

He pushes himself up; gripping the edge of the sofa with one hand for support as he does; because that's what got him here in the first place, and on slightly shaking legs, he stands; turning to face her, even if she won't face him.

"Clara." He repeats – this time, more softly; a lighter tone than the one he had used on the floor, it's slightly tucked away and careful as it moves, gliding through the air and around it. She blinks before him; something happens in her eyes – expressions, in different shades of brown live and die; she blinks again, and with slightly glossy eyes she looks at him, and he doesn't miss the way her jaw clenches when she does so.

Her jaw unlocks before he goes to speak again – letting out a sigh, and pulling in more air; and then locks up again, and by then he's speaking; softly once more – a light and gentle tone, as though she might go running away any moment; and he wouldn't be surprised if she did, and of course he knows he'll follow her if she bolts for the stairs; and in the same hand, give her space if she needs it. "I'm not going anywhere," It leaves his mouth slowly; uncurling and fading into the surrounding atmosphere.

Her face is a clean slate – carefully blank, scrapped free of the barest hint of emotion; features sharp, eyes no longer glossy when she blinks again, finally forming little orbs of salt at the edges of her eyes. "You don't have to stay." She tells him with a slightly scratching tone, a voice that threatens to cave and break at any moment, and one hand uncurls from her elbow and flutters upwards; thumb pressing to the edges of her eyes – moving to the next, but he beats her too it; lifting a hand and whipping away the unshed tear, before dropping his hand; and she does the same, only after a few seconds to lift it again and return it to her elbow, it curls around it again; only this time a little more looser.

"Do you want me to stay?" He asks in the same tone that she had used, and he shifts slightly in his stance, partly away; partly closer in her general direction, and his feet do the same. He clears his throat and speaks again before she gets the chance to answer. "Because, Clara Oswald. I'd like to stay."

Her eyes flutter and something of a squeak escapes her mouth through slightly parted lips, which she can't seem to shut. She clears her throat; and blinks, one slow, almost thought out movement. She inhales, and opens her mouth again. "Really?" She breathes, and she clears her throat again after – a clip of noise. "Because if you're just saying that –" Her face contorts, eyes flicking to the right; to the same photograph covered wall, and a frown begins to etch into her features almost violently, eyes narrowing slightly as she rambles; also glossing over.

"I'm not just saying that," The words leave on the same breeze, and slowly he lifts a hand; going to cup her face, his thumb returning to the edge of her eye; after a few seconds her gaze returns to him – just a flicker of movement as he continues speaking. "I'd really like to stay, if you'll have me." She inhales again once he's finished speaking, a soft shaky movement, her eyes fluttering as she does so; and in the same heartbeat she lifts one hand from her side, wrapping it around the wrist that's connected to the hand on her face; cupping and rubbing the exposed skin with the edges of her fingertips, little back and forth movements; a nervous fidget.

His eyes flick to her hand; which is hardly big enough to make it all around his wrist, and he's completely silent as he watches the movement for a few drawn out seconds; seconds that could be counted as years as time stretches on, but he doesn't look at her as she makes up her mind; only returning his gaze after she clears her throat, again, another clip of noise that this time around doesn't break.

"Alright," She whispers; this is followed by a cracked and broken chuckle, one without much humor; nothing more than puffs of air, free of sound as it leaves her lips; laced with hysteria and a dash of excitement that bleeds into her voice when she speaks again. "I'll have you." Her lips turn and curve around the sentence into a blinding smile, which curves again around another broken burst of laughter; and before her, a grin etches its way onto his features and a light flickers and sparks in his eyes.

And without warning he steps forward; the same smile on his face as he pulls her too him; wrapping his arms around her frame, one around her lower back and one that spreads across her shoulders; pulling her even closer, chest to chest, for a hug.

She wiggles, and then sinks against him; melting against him, slotting into his frame with ease and her arms snake their way through the gaps made by his and come too wrap their way around his upper shoulders, and then she's returning the hug for everything she's worth, her head falling into the curve of his neck and shoulder; breath tickling the base of his throat, while the side of his head presses against the top of hers – his face contorts, and something deep inside of him clicks.

The reality of the situation clicks – _she's pregnant_ – and it clicks deep inside his chest, deep within the cresives of scars, wrapped in barb wire and thorns; it's incredibly small, it's scraped and cracked and scarred by the surrounding objects; but it's real; and some sort of sick realization coats over him in that same second, spreading over his skin like sweat; something that makes the hairs on the back of his neck arch up, the single thought that this new family, won't replace his old one; but he'll love them just the same, if not more.

He exhales and the realization hits him again – _she's pregnant - with __**his**__ child_. And it forces him to draw back, arms bending and curving around her; still supporting her, and she's happy to sink against them as he does so, leaning back into his grasp with an echo of a smile on her face that shines as they come face to face. "Clara," He sighs and the smile returns; blossoming slowly, pulling and uplifting the edges of her lips. "My Clara!" A strangled sigh escapes his lips at the end of her name; he pulls her in again for another hug, a flicker of soul wrecking emotion passing through him, that threatens to crack his spine and bend his knees; shaking his frame as though he's standing in the center of a thunder storm and the ground is caving in underneath his feet – joy, nervousness, excitement – before withdrawing again, and pressing their foreheads together; and then kissing her.

She tilts her head forward slightly; eyes fluttering shut a few seconds later; it's a slow slide of lips, bridging and tinkling on the edge of warmth, slowly little movements of unadulterated love and affection; and then, as the kiss continues she slowly comes to smile against his lips; a mirror image forming on his in the following seconds, followed by sharp little inhales and exhales that are laced with humor and giggles, pure and laced with excitement; before they fade into the surrounding silence.

Behind them, the door clicks and unlocks and the echo of noise fills their world, their soft, delicate and newly formed world; brimming with a sort of explosive light on the edge– the shuffle of footsteps, muddled out and faded voices, trapped behind the glass door. It's pushed open then, and the noise bleeds and thrives and fills the hall way; brushing against the walls, smashing down to them and where they stand in the living room, slightly into the kitchen, tucked away from sight until the Maitland's come stumbling, well Angie and Artie come stumbling, Mr. Maitland slowly follows; feet dragging along the floor, the brush of _something _against the wall that he follows in the wake of.

The shriek of laughter comes with the children; the stumble of feet as they stop in their tracks and retort slightly backwards; unsure of what to do with the situation before them, broken off little giggles floating up into the air in the newly found stillness of the room. Giggles that continue until the sound of Mr. Maitland's footsteps travel down from the hall; the floors creaking underneath his weight, and after a few seconds he clears his throat – the Doctor's eyes flick open and widen, and imidetly he's wiggling, squirming, stepping back from Clara with tainted cheeks; the barest hint of pink, dusting over normally light skin.

Clara's reluctant as she draws away from him; turning around slightly before stepping back and turning around completely, coming to stand at his side, close – shoulder to shoulder, hands fidgeting at her sides, going to grab and grasp one of his from where they hang, limp and useless at his side, the barest hint of color, more than that on his face, bleeding into her cheeks; and after that the moment surrounding them is cradled.

Smirks on the child's faces, and amusement, with something else on Mr. Maitland's; silence begins to blossom at the corners and edges of the room, thriving and floating into the air, broken when the Doctor speaks.

"She's pregnant." It's a breath of a sentence; filled with surprise, true and raw; excitement lacing his words as he speaks, he squirms slightly in his spot; feet shuffling against the floor, his hand twitching around Clara's smaller one.

And just like that – the silence changes, from free and misty, bubbling to sharp and slightly cracked, vivid and so very noticeable; losing it's comfortable and relaxed atmosphere, which is peeled back to reveal something sharp and steady and solid, clear underneath – and the bags, which had been the something to brush against the wall, in Mr. Maitland's arms crumple and slide from his grip, dropping on to the floor in the following seconds; before him, Artie and Angie are stark silent, Angie's face a mixture of her own surprise, and laced with an oncoming remark, Artie's on the other hand is more relaxed, mixed with a bit of confusion and what appears to be a sort of comfort.

And of course, the man in question turns scarlet as soon as he notices what he's said; his frame snapping up, slightly bent in shoulders now completely straight and stressed, strained; a shocked expression etching its way into his features in a few seconds as the small smile that had remained on his features drops imidetly; his eyes dash in Clara's direction, who looks just as shocked – if not more so, color steadily bleeding into her features.

"Did you just – oh my god," It's a broken whisper; a shocked and drawn out sentences on the breeze of an exhale; a frown slowly drawing itself together on her forehead before falling apart completely, her lips curl around the sentences; as though it's stuck between a smirk and smile; hinted with amusement and the horror is being pulled away; slowly removed and unpeeled from the words as she continues to speak and of course the color only continues to bleed into his face, despite her obvious relaxed posture; his shuffling gets a bit more noticeable, his gaze continues to flick across her face – a little bit of horror bleeding into his expression; making up for the horror and terror she's letting go of.

She eventually decides on a smile; the same hand that had wrapped around his wrist earlier lifts, and comes to cup his face; the barest hint of touch, remaining there for a fraction of a second, fluttering to his neck and shoulder, curling around the skin, patting it and then falling off completely. "Relax, Doctor. Breathe." She tells him with the same continued smile; taking in his rigid stance; shoulders taunt and tight, skin flushed.

His shoulders sag after a few more seconds; caving in on themselves, and underneath him his feet continue to shift, half away, half towards Clara; and around them all, the room begins to hum; it thrives, the silence losing its edge and lifting slightly; becoming almost warm, words and different phrases on the edges of tongues.

The color of his face retracts slightly, he pales noticeably as his stance becomes more relaxed; his chest suddenly seems free – he can breathe again, if he wished; but he doesn't, he's still holding his breath, still shocked and appalled with himself, despite Clara's and everyone else's obvious amusement with the situation.

And of course, it's him again who breaks the silence; feet lurching forward as he steps in that direction, a nervous and broken sentence on his lips; "I'll just – show myself out then." It's terribly stuttered, and he's almost reeling; desperately trying to flee from the situation – a bird, frantically flapping it's wings but unable to go anywhere; not realizing the window isn't open, so it continues to smack against the glass.

Artie moves next; snaking away from his father and sisters side, taking a few sharp, confidant steps in the Doctor's direction, who for whatever reason has become frozen in place; or at least, stopped any effort of moving all together as the younger boy's arms wrap around his waist in the fluid movement of a hug.

And across the room, Angie gives a snarky reply, something that leaves and rolls off her tongue just as easy and fluid as her brother's movement, something along the lines of; "About time, now you can have your own kids." Followed by Clara's defiant and humor laced tone, "I never treated you guys like my kids – and besides, Angie it's not like you ever would have let me and it's not like I wanted to." The girl in question lets out a snort, a riled up and excited noise, followed by another slick reply coated with sass. "Close enough," She clips.

Their voices are muffled and so very vivid – bright, in his ears when they speak; a steady, solid, beautiful and dazzling background noise. He's so focused on their conversation that by the time his arms begin to fold and return the embrace around Artie; the boy is already gone, having withdrawn and slid around him without another word, and what he didn't say, goes spoken by his sister – who says it with the same comfortable expression her brother had worn earlier, and she means it with genuine compassion as she says it.

"Congratulations, Clara." Followed by another small snort and a gentle tiny smile – even though he can't see it with his back turned, "And Clara's boyfriend."

Just like that, he's pulled back into the moment; no longer observing, nor simply listening to their conversations but now a part of them – he blinks, and the world regains just as much life and color before him as their conversations had held in his head, and he turns around; going to face Angie and Clara with a mixture of a smile and grin on his face. "It's the Doctor, Angie." He says and the girl before him and she snorts again, shaking her head with a smile on her face and a roll of her eyes when she looks back in his direction – and then, she's gone; parting and sliding past them, leaving the room in the same trail her brother took.

It's the three of them after that, although Mr. Maitland – George, is now in the kitchen, having picked up the formally abandoned bags from the floor, now putting away their contents in the cabinets. As the pair realizes this – slowly drifting together, towards each other; eventually slipping hand in hand - they walk from the living room and into the kitchen, where they pause and drift near the table.

But they drift together.

George casts a glance in their direction, a flicker; a smile on his face, before he pushes back a can out of view, deeper into the wooden cradle; and as he picks up another one from deep within the contents of the clear white plastic bag on the floor, he looks at them again. "Congratulations, you two." He says and his voice rings in the room – loud and clear, with an undercurrent of real happiness for the pair across from him. One hand comes up and gently brushes past the cabinet, fingers curling around the small circular knob on its corner; and as he shuts the panel, he continues to speak. "Do you two want something to drink, or eat?"

It's an invitation; a chance for a deeper conversation, they both can see it before them.

And they don't need to look at each other to know the other's decision, it had already been made before this after all; on the split second of possibility of confrontation, when the door clicked as it popped open, and the brimming noise had floated down to them.

The Doctor shakes his head, an echo of a smile on his face. "No thank you, George." And for further explanation; he continues speak. "We've got places to be, and I'd like to run a few tests – and I'm sure Clara would like to tell Dave," At his side Clara nods; as far as places to go resigns – places will wait for them, all of time and space will wait for them; locations will remain in place and years will continue to tick but can also be rewound. Tests – he will run a few, and many; just not now, and Dave, her father, he resigns in a different sort of time completely.

George bids them a grin, and nods; hands curling around the counter as he turns to face them. "Well good luck with that," He smiles at Clara, and as his eyes flicker in the direction of the Doctor, they gain a new sort of edge. "I wish you well with informing Dave," And at his side, Clara laughs softly.

"My father isn't that bad."

George is silent – an eyebrow rising slightly; and with that, they bid their final goodbyes and head for the door.

The door slides open with a gentle pop, she brushes past it and he follows, shutting it with a click behind him; and their striding across the lawn, sun glinting in the sky – which is a pale, light baby blue and free of clouds; dew covered grass bending underneath their feet; soft and silent as they go – the only noise breaking the silence as their feet hit the pavement of the sidewalk and she begins to speak.

"Hey, chin boy."

He stops, just a few inches short of her; and turns, half way, glancing over his shoulder and then around completely; taking in the sight of the gentle smile on her face and sun splattered hair, and she takes the half-step to meet him, one hand coming up to rest on his shoulder; the other on the back of his neck, and the words that had been building on the edge of his tongue melt away completely at the contact; and she's rising up, shifting onto the edges of her toes and unconsciously his lips part, just a fraction as she gets closer.

"I love you," She breaths against his lips – his eyes slide shut as she closes the centimeter gap, pressing their lips together; and almost imidetly his arms move; one hand and arm brandishing itself across her waist, the other settling a few inches above its companion; and his fingers curl around her sides, he pulls her a bit closer in a chaste way; gently, not slammed chest to chest but the gentle brush, the suggestion of it. One arm uncurls then and slides upwards, brushing past her folded in arm; the one that holds a hand on his left shoulder, curling around her shoulders and continuing, the hand of that arm brushing past her neck and fingers coming to brush against her jaw; an easy movement given the small structure of her frame.

After a few seconds, the gentle slide of lips – filled to the brim with warmth, they part.

"Clara," It escapes without his permission – the gentle sigh of her name, followed by a confession on air.

"I love you too."

Her lips bend and curve around his as she kisses him again, a slightly disfigured kiss going by the large smile on her face; one that she struggles too, and eventually gives up; trying to control. His are the mirror image; two impossibly large smiles on their faces.


	2. He's very interested (Black Eyes)

Her slightly swollen belly is resting underneath his hand, or rather; he's resting his hand on her belly, which happens to be the closest thing one can rest their hands on. (Well, there's always the bed sheet a few inches past her belly, but that isn't warm; or at least, that's what he tells himself).

Said belly, is also the only thing on his mind – it's a ringing, very complicated string of thought, something that continues to get tangled no matter how many times he sits down and unravels it completely.

She shifts besides him, curling in a little tighter and shifting so she's more on her back; and in that same moment, he fights the urge to remove his hand from her, because it suddenly seems tainted – dark and disgusting, coated with the blood of his past; suddenly, it seems as though he has no right to touch, or cradle or speak to the woman that carries his child.

Across from him; her chest lifts, and then falls in a steady beat; a gentle and caressing pace, and just like that – the feeling is gone, gone beneath and surface and tucked underneath the emotions of what he's currently feeling; the excitement that licks and buzzes at the edge of his skin like a live wire, mixed in with the barest hint of surreal fear.

He swallows; and the excitement melts, as though a candle has suddenly been held to it – but it curves, and drips to avoid the flickering sharp heat of the flame; and it's curving around knowledge, the fact that this is _his_ child, something that he created – a part of him, a human (slightly-human) being that he is going to love, without question, without judgment; without a safety net, just someone he will love unconditionally for the rest of his life.

A dark thought curls at that – and threatens to spill out into his throat, but he swallows again and stops it; pushing against it, until it's in the far back of his mind, and he draws the person before him to the front of his mind – focusing on her instead, rather than the lurking shadows of his thoughts.

As though his demons are snarling dogs trying to get into a room; something he can simply avoid, so long as he locks the door.

He can, for the moment however; and he's happy to do so as Clara rolls onto her back, sinking into the fabric the rest of the way; and his hand glides across her skin, feather like in touch as the edges of his finger tips skim across.

She sighs in her sleep; her eyes flick underneath her eyelids, but they remained closed; and he pushes himself up slightly, digging his elbow a bit more into the mattress and shifting the position of his head from where it leans against his balled up fist.

His gaze rolls; from her face, features soft and free of pain – drifting, in some part of her unconsciousness; a murky but clean slate, to the lightly clinging shirt she wears (having switched out from the snug pajamas once her stomach had started to expand, and even now five months in it is incredibly noticeable, a part Gallifreyan, part Human pregnancy will do that), and again to the round, new center of his world – their world, and it continues to where the duvet covers them both, to the faint outline of her feet, and then his a few inches further into the darkness.

And then it flicks back up, dropping at her belly, then her face, and back again.

He finds himself frowning and his thoughts slowly churning; is this admiring, or is it a snitch of the deep, raw protectiveness that sometimes erupts and claws at the side of his chest without heed for the contents of it; the stuff that grows around his heart, and is nearly violent as far as emotions go – although, nearly everything he feels; good or bad, tends to be done with an explosion of itself, pushed to the farthest extremes.

He blinks; and his free hand curls; fingers brushing against his palm, and then slowly he uncurls them, spreading them open wide before gently laying them on the slightly exposed skin, knuckles skimming and fingers dragging as he goes, freed by the ruffle of her top.

She makes a almost snorting noise in her sleep; a half conscious mumble, the beginning of a word; and in the darkness, he can see the light dance across her eyelashes, sink against and into them as her eyes flutter open – and as they do, an apology floods to the center and tip of his tongue, his hand suddenly feels slightly dirty again, as though grime or dust has settled over his fingers and the back of his hand.

Her eyes squeeze shut though; and he finds himself unable to speak, watching silently – like a ghost – as she lifts her hands and scrubs at them, letting out the same, soft sigh, almost-mumble as she does so, yawning at the end of it all; lips parting and spreading wide.

"He's kicking," Her voice is laced with sleep; and the echo of a smile, the barest taint caused by her yawn and she shifts in the bed, scooting closer; closer to him, and his propped up position, and the obviousness that he's been like what for a while, not questioning it – and he finds himself, purely thankful for her lack of questions; for her silent acceptance, and that thankfulness only grows, and it threatens to break him – to crack his chest with raw emotion and strip his spine of its defenses.

"He?" He whispers eventually, tilting slightly in, closer to her; his head bends and dips, and even though in the faint darkness he can hardly see a thing.

Her hair spills out against the pillow as she tilts her head in his direction; the same smile lacing her lips, "Would you prefer I say, 'it'?" She asks softly and in the same moment she lifts one hand, placing it over his and moving it slowly as she speaks; bringing it across her skin and flattening it out across the center of where the vibrations are coming from – the heart, and strongest point of those kicks.

"No, 'He' is fine." The end of the sentence breaks off with a small squeak and a strangled gasp; his eyes flutter, and in the dim light, the color of his skin shifts and pales; and on top of his hand, Clara's begins to move, her thumb begins rubbing small circles in the crook of his wrist, soft, hardly unnoticeable touches; done in hope of relaxing his taunt and cement-like structure. His eyes flutter against after a few seconds; and in the same second, his shoulders sag and his hand on her stomach sinks against the skin, as though suddenly returning to life.

A soft smile returns to her lips; her gaze flicking between him, and the hand and back to him again; where she soaks up the unadulterated awe and fascination on the man's face; eyes slightly wide, glossed over and sparked with an entirely new brand of lightly; slack features and parted lips, and the slow, tiny movement of his shoulders lifting and falling; as though he's afraid to breath - as if he'll break the air, or cave in the room by doing so.

He goes rigid against the next vibration – the next kick that settles out over her stomach in an almost ripple like sort of way and touches the palm of his hand, a square blow to the center of it. He draws himself back in, and she can watch the flip, flicker, the thoughts churning in his mind and the change in posture; he blinks, and the light is gone like a flame; a dim echo in the several shades of green along the edges of the color, tucked away between that and the pupils, now a near-black in the dim light of the surrounding room; his jaw closes and tenses, he's alert – features sharp, ready; he's also nervous, resigned within himself.

She fights back a small laugh; because despite the hard shell of the situation, the way he's acting is almost adorable - a afraid little boy, hiding under the bed; hiding from the caterpillar in the center of his room, a small harmless little creature; unknowing of his presence. However she does clear her throat; and puts a bit more pressure into the hand resting on top of his – just enough to draw him back from where veer his thoughts leg him astray.

It does take him quite a few seconds and a fair amount of hesitation to remove his gaze from her belly and switch to her face; and when their gazes slot and slip together again, she sees some of the hesitation and fear slowly begin to blend together and fade away, relaxation returning to it's rightful place. And it only continues to return because he scoots closer, inching his way forward, ignoring the way the mattress shifts underneath them.

They're nearly nose to nose when he stops – a lazy smile forming on his features, and his hand slowly begins to move, rubbing, slipping; skidding past her skin with the feather of a touch, a ghost, an echo; but solid enough for her, just barely though. "Clara," He sighs.

He says it like a prayer; on the edge of a breath, laced with awe and humming with excitement. She watches as he swallows – several expressions flickering across his features, porcelain to clay to glass and back again; she watches as he dips his head forward, continuing the tilt until their forehead's are pressed together.

"You, are beautiful." He sighs against her lips – and his whisper fills the room, it soaks into the bed and glides, slips down to the floor, and pools outwards; bumping into the corners and walls of the room, only to be absorbed once more; taken inwards, tucked away for later days.

She's got a reply on the tip of her tongue – and a tug-o-war going on inside her chest, the yanking need to say it; and the underlying concern, if she says it; if it'll somehow contaminate the surrounding moment and she'd rather not do that – she likes him like this, relaxed; at peace, comfortable, brimming with a gentle sort of light that she finds enchanting and beautiful, and inhuman; and she loves it about him.

She swallows and the rope that had somehow rolled itself up into a knot untangles and falls into her chest; and she tilts her head up slightly, pressing her lips to his for a few seconds before letting her head fall back into the pillows, and sink against the soft, welcoming material; she lets the snarky, humorous and slick reply do the same; vanishing completely from her thoughts.

Her eyes fall shut when he returns the kiss – surprisingly damp; the liquid coats over her eyes but thankfully doesn't burn them, and as he kisses her; they only continue to do so, and when he withdraws and they flutter open, it doesn't go unnoticed. "Clara?" It's the same whisper, but this time more sturdy; there's a foundation underneath it, and he's ready to jump down from his high, from the unadulterated bliss that he's floating above, and on, if he needs too.

She clears her throat – which is far too tight for her liking, and she wants so desperately to speak; tell him she's alright, and that he doesn't need to worry but she knows if she speaks now the worlds will crack and shatter as they force their way up her throat and the fractured ends that spill out will only cut him; so she takes the time to collect herself, pushing past his growing concern, which thrives and insists on taking up far more much room that it truly needs, then speaks.

"I'm – I'm fine," She growls out; and then continues, plowing through her words and taking advantage of the ability to speak. "I don't know why I'm crying," One hand flutters up from where it had been resting – his side, in the center of his rib cage – and scrubs as the edge of her left eye, but before she can make it to the other, his hand is there; stroking gently, brushing away the moisture with the pad of his thumb, and then it's gone.

She watches as his silhouette shifts before her; refracting and returning to it's original location at her side, rather than looming over her; and his silhouette blurs his features; she was to wait a few seconds before she can see it again, and when she can, she finds the results surprising and they lace her voice with curiosity.

"What?" She whispers – even though it's more of a croak, and she watches as he tilts his head just slightly to one side, just a few centimeters, the lazy smile now a prized one, the barest hint of teeth and a sort of underlying giddiness and she knows normally resides within him; and she watches as that giddiness retracts as well, vanishing underneath his features as a more gentler, serious tone takes its place.

His hand leaves her belly once more – she hadn't realized he'd return it after whipping away the would-be tear – and comes to cup the side of her face, and he scoots closer with the same movement; returning to the looming posture he held before."You're crying, because you're happy."

She blinks again; and her throat is still tight, still swollen; but this time, there's a sort of hum at the bottom of her throat, wrapped around her collar bone, it shakes the structure but also comforts it - whispering softly that it is alright to break, to let go and be done.

Her eyes flutter when something damp splashes onto her cheek and continues to slide down it – a big fat plop, and above her; his eyes flutter a few seconds later; she watches the end of it, the clearing of the fog when she catches his gaze again; they shine in the light – dancing shades of green, ranging from the lightest to the darkest, raw and true little shards of scrap, debris of color; beautiful in the way they catch the light and entrap it. Her eyes flick away from the different shades; down to the echo of the smile on his lips, which is tucked away in the lines of his face surrounding his lips and then her gaze flicks back up; his eyes are still glossy, and she blinks; then so are hers.

This time, her voice does cave when she speaks; it trembles and threatens to break - but it doesn't, in the cave, it bends and rebuilds itself. "You're crying."

He tilts his head back down – their foreheads leaning together; skin against skin, that sinks together without hesitation and the hand on her cheek gets a little tighter as they settle together; and with the settling, it loosens and relaxes, it loosens and as that unravels so does he.

He sighs; the barest puff of air, that fades into the surrounding area but the hum, the center of it remains - the rawness of it, of what he's feeling; the calm, the lapping of the sea that's sleep, and in the soft gentle tug of the water, in the sound of that, there is another one; his voice, and the whisper that slowly comes to fill the room; and in the darkness, she hears it realizing just then, that she had shut her eyes.

She debates for a moment on opening them; knowing what she would see, what she would find - his eyes, closed just centimeters, almost an inch from hers; but she would also see that light; that gentle hum and vibration of the Doctor in his peace, and she would see it as a physical thing; in his features but before she can make a decision, his words gently usher, and rip, that thought apart - but they do it gently and with grace as they curve and shake and struggle to remain stable; heaving underneath the weight of emotion pressed down upon them.

His tone is as though he's speaking about soul-wrenching loss - but at the same time, he speaks as a man who has suddenly found a miracle from supposed long gone God.

"I've got a _very _good reason to be crying."


	3. Oh dear child (Part One)

**AN'S: Trigger warning for natural disaster and description of gore.**

**Enjoy.**

**By the way, there is a song that inspired this chapter, and here it is, feel free to listen: Wild One by I Am Harlequin **

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It's simple.

She draws in a breath, and then, she screams.

Over, and over, and over again; a soul wrenching sound that vibrates and smashes, crawls and hurtles throughout the air, without forgiveness and without hesitant as it goes tumbling along, lost into the roaring winds; the noise flickering with life for a few moments before being snuffed out completely. Gone and silent, like a candle's flame whisked out, fingers pressing against the small pitiful light, with the owner of the hand without a single thought for the smoke that curls steadily into the air – and she finds herself wishing that she could find some of that unforgiving silence; some solitude, some sort of broken hesitance, because then, if she had that, if she had time she could collect her thoughts. She could lay out her decisions and pick one, and be confidant with it.

But she can't do that; she doesn't have time, which is something of the essence, it's slipping through her fingers; bleeding out in small scrapes and dotting bruises, she can't get a grip, it's tumbling along right next to her shouts, vanishing completely and utterly into the distance – the only thing she can do is hold on; and pray she doesn't follow it.

Currently, one of the things she's holding onto is the spot where he vanished from – one second he was there, looking at her; holding her gaze, trying to speak, she knows this because she could see his lips moving, but the words were getting lost in translation. (_It's alright, Clara. Just hold on, okay? I'm coming to you – I am coming to get you. Alright? Just stay there – my impossible girl, just stay there!_) Impossibly large bright green eyes, beautiful green eyes; freckled with oh so many shades, he blinked; she saw the whites of his eyes, tinged at the edges with a glossy pink; and once for in a long time, that pink was laced with sadness.

He blinked again – and then, he was gone. The slaughter of the raging wind had picked up, snuck underneath his hands and fingers and wrapped around them; forming little threads and simply _tugging_, it had curled around his feet and calves and pulled on them, pulled and yanked and dragged him along until he was gone. Gone, tumbling over the cliff's edge, and not even a shout was heard.

Well, she had heard it for a second; the sharp, ringing noise; deep and rich, and on the edge of breaking, tinkling and raw and small, small, increasingly tiny as he fell away and the noise only got sucked up too in the end; not leaving her a single thing to hold on to.

Not even an echo too remain ringing in her ears. Nothing left of him, whipped out completely as though he'd never been standing there – never existed, clinging to the cliff's edge along with her.

Now the only thing that's echoing is her voice, and it's hardly even her voice; just the ragged, uneven pattern of her breathe as it cuts and rips through the air; as it gets sucked up and drowned in the surrounding noises of the storm. The only hint of her voice is the small tiny little whimpers, cut off sobs and mumbles that lace those raw, unadulterated noises of sorrow, grief and dread.

Her voice carries on, whipping and tumbling in the wind; fluttering, like a bird desperate for flight but unable to find it; dropping down all together, only to resurface as a howl; a howl that slams, and claws and screams; a violent thing, bouncing off the surrounding debris and slinking along as it goes.

"Doctor!"

No reply.

"_Doctor!_" It's a snarl; a deep, rich, ragged pathetic scrape filled noise.

No reply.

"_Doctor!_" This time, it's louder; by just a fraction, but it's so much rawer – it peels at her throat, slams out her mouth and refuses to be gentle – it's wild, shards of razor blades and glass flying from her mouth.

And this time, she does get a reply.

The wind picks up; a good section of a tree, debris, and Hell comes whirling in her direction.

She doesn't even have the time, or energy to scream; all she can do is let out a small squeak and turn her body; closer to the cliff face, closer to the solid rock – closer, and further away from the apocalyptic situation happening behind her back.

She finds herself, as the tree limb, or more accurately, the entire tree and it's companions, skids by, branches nicking and scraping into her back; and even as the sharp little sticks snap, break and slice and cut into her skin; she finds herself free of care for those particular wounds; instead, her entire focus is on the _need_ to move her arms, her hands; move them and enclose them around her, for once, obnoxiously, swollen belly. But in the same heartbeat, as something warm begins to coat her back, she know she can't do that, because she'll let go and it'll be all over, she'll follow the path of the Doctor's decent, inedible to her death, and it won't be pretty.

Her grip, even though it hasn't moved, loosens in that second as her thoughts come to a screeching halt, and around her time slowly begins to still; the wind continues to flutter, and snarl and scream, but it's all unimportant, the branches and trees, and rocks and metal, plastic, un-earthly materials that fall around her are nothing more than a steady, free falling backdrop.

Underneath her, her legs threaten to turn to jelly, the ground suddenly seems soft; no longer sturdy, nor strong. Any support, comfort it held is gone – because he, is gone. He is most likely, dead; and it's not even that, it's the buildup of the scenery; watching him be yanked away from her and hurled into the storm. It's the fear in his eyes, and the final feature she saw etched into his face that threatens to break her.

And being dead for good is also smeared into the mixture, and her mind is more than happy to offer up some images of him; entrapped in some sort of thing, a constrictive set of arms of injuries and weights pressing down, debris, things that hold him back and prevent him from regeneration; instead of freeing him, it enforces him to go to bed – for good.

It whips through her mind, and slices it in half; and continues, chopping and melting and prodding and scraping, cutting up into little bits and pieces and examining them, then lighting that on fire. She blinks, and the flames lick at the edges of her eyelids; her head, her mind continues to collapse; her temple aching, pounding, cracking; bone smashing against bone, bombs going off inside her ears.

There's the crunch of gravel, the drag of it against her skin as she slides down, nicking into the flesh and drawing out blood in little trickles and then in streams; she collapses to her feet, sinking against the earth, her body bends in the dust; small bits of rock and sand sink and coat the newly formed, hardly noticeable wounds.

Her chest lifts, and falls; her head tilts, forehead pressing into and against the cliff side, her ears are swimming in noises; in the roar of everything, and the deathly silence around it all; wrapping it up tight, coating it in a brutal and thick layer. She swallows and her eyes continue to burn, acid pouring down the edges; licking and slicing up the skin as it goes, peeling back the sliced edges to reveal the flesh and nerves underneath to the physical damage of surrounding reality.

Her hand shake, fingers curl against the earth and slowly begin to move, crawling along; up her legs, into her lap; arms folding around her belly, and underneath her, her legs begin to burn; hot flashes splashing onto her thighs and calves, a forest fire roaring and raging without a single glimpse of control; and in that, is the sharp and deep ushering desire to move; it bubbles, and sinks and melts and presses against the edges of her bones; up against the paper thin lining, about to spill out into her limbs, but she can't bring herself too. She's gone; she's no longer in charge of this body, nor in charge of her thoughts; she's already a carcass, destroyed and ripped apart, a ruin that somehow is breathing; but the life is gone. A mind whipped out in seconds notice, simply a beating heart rather than the person that used to live in it.

She draws in a breath and her throat heaves, a choking, wet sloppy noise sprays out into the air, and as though the cliff wall isn't there, it floats into the air and is lost to her ears. She draws in another breathe and her hands continue to curl and wrap around her belly; finger tips shaking slightly, digging into the skin as though desperate for some sort of physical hold, but still finding none in the dust covered, thin and collapsing fabric of her dress.

The wind whips and roars and smashes around inside her ears; pressing against the sides of her head, and a small whimper, a moan, escapes her lips and she dips her head; pressing her forehead to her knees, pressing against the earth with bare feet, because at some point in this apocalypse, her shoes got lost; ripped and torn from her feet, and she hadn't even noticed. She presses her forehead against the soft exposed, freshly scrapped up flesh of her knees and sinks her teeth into her lips; a wicked, metallic cherry taste flooding her mouth; glossing over her lips and slipping inside.

She spits it back out; but she can't see the little flecks of red that cover the ground in the aftermath, she can't see anything past the steady layer of dust before her.

And then, she can't feel anything.

It takes her a few seconds to notice the absence of the earth underneath her, but then it slowly sinks in; creeping in uninvited at the sides of her ankles, and then sinking deep into her flesh; stabbing in, crawling and clawing its way to the bone; flooding her system, bending her limbs; shaking her body like a rag doll.

Information that shakes her like a rag doll, and so does the wind; so does the alienated nature of this planet as she tumbles backwards into open, negative space; feet kicking and flailing in the air, arms reeling at her sides; head tossed back with her hair whipping around her face; creating thick black streaks in her vision; the wind pricks at the corners of her eyes, digging into the whites of them; itching her on to close her eyes, whispering in her ear if she can't see it, then she doesn't have to worry about it; that if she closes her eyes, she suddenly won't be falling off the side of a cliff.

But that's a lie, and she knows it.

Knows it in the rotting section of her chest; imbedded in her heart, marked from the second he fell over – he was ripped from the cliff side and so was she. And that rotted section, deep green and tinted with purple, laced with black as though it had been stitched to the other sections of the struggling organ whispers in her ear; and the surrounding sections, the bright red and vivid, different shades of pink and white do the same; tell her that there is a high chance the Doctor survived his fall. He's Gallifreyan after all. He's got lives, and lives to spare – she hopes at least; and in her hope she knows that she does not.

She blinks and her back arches without warning; her arms flutter, fingers spread, legs kick angrily, jabbing blows to an invisible enemy, and then she's flipped, the wind wrapping around her limbs and spinning her like a lover in a dance; shoulders jerking fiercely enough that a sharp crackle echoes and bounces into her ears. Her hair continues to become a second layer of skin, plastering to any flesh it touches; melted and plastered with blood and saliva, and sweat. Her arms continue to shake; broken wings, free of pain, but still wrapped in the confusion as to why they cannot take flight.

The wind then whips her back around; flinging her onto her back in a moments act, switching and rolling her as though she'd been unwrapped in a blanket, and that blanket had been tugged open; all its contents spilling out onto the floor. And then, she's switched again; and her limbs are still reeling, kicking, scratching, swinging wildly but as her descent continues, with every few feet it feels as though her skins getting peeled back; or someone has placed a wall, strong, solid and complete, between her, and her skin. She's slowly being separated from her body. She's watching everything; without a single lick of emotion or touch in her system.

Her hair whips her face and crackles and snaps in her ears, her decent continues and slowly, a black-green smudge drains itself into her vision; breaking through the pale, blue-white muggy fog that covers everything below her like a crummy child's school play backdrop. And then, it's cracking through to her reality; getting closer and closer and closer until it hits the glass, and punctures it; and she's so busy covering herself from the shards, she doesn't see the true moment of impact until it's happened; until she hits the first branch.

Her air; her life line, leaves her in a flash; in the same sharp, deep, terrifying soul-wrenching crack that the branch makes as her body smacks into it, bending around her form for a fraction of second before caving and digging into the flesh of her side.

And it doesn't stop there.

She keeps on falling.

Although now, she's no longer falling, she's crashing; she's crashing and she's going up in flames, ripping herself apart in every way imaginable; she's burning.

Her body tumbles, and falls and rolls onto the next branch; her lips are parted, tinged at the edges with a fine cross between blue and barest hint of purple; eyes spread open wide; deep brown orbs shining, and in the depth of that color a small circle of black is etched, and as her eyes get a little wider the voices do the same. Every part of her is screaming – her mind is _howling_, wailing on the inside, yelling at her to fold her arms around her stomach, shut her eyes, to do _something_ to prevent as much damage as possible; and yet, as her flesh tumbles through the tree branches, each few inches that separate a drop, she finds herself slipping further, and further away; being pulled deeper inside; wrapped up more into that cocoon which some part of her – or something that to be deems safe, the walls are getting thicker, and taller.

But, she manages to lift her arms; which threaten to float away, going by the _thing_ tugging at her forearms and fingers, and encloses them around her belly; she lifts her head up, bends her shoulders; which several seconds later proves to be a bad decision as she collides with another branch directly below her neck – a thick, deep smashing noise is made as she falls through the slick and ragged texture, and the blow is strong enough to slam the air out of her lungs once more, all before it breaks; a wail, a low dying noise is forced from her lips as it breaks; splinters flying into her skin, crumbling and breaking against the once soft surface, now scuffed and ragged; a few good chunks wiggle their way into her skin.

Her decent continues; and she rolls, she drops, she falls, she plummets; and then, only then does she hit the ground.

She hits it with a thick _thunk_, dust, bits of leaves and twigs erupt in a cloud of smoke around her, a cloud which settles as she does the same, the ground caving inwards just barely and molding around her broken, cracked, and frayed form.

She exhales and air leaves her lips, brushing past them softly and curling up into the air; her shoulders ache, her ribs scream and bend and seem to mold around her organs; pressing against the soft flesh of her back on the inside, and slowly little electrical shots of pain begin to spread out over the course of her shoulders; a live wire stripped of its protective coating, and trapped inside a pool of water.

She blinks, and her chest falls again – only this time, there's no air left to force out, but however, she manages to somehow choke on something; and as she coughs, sputtering into the air; which is now vibrating, humming softly with a sort of heat, having lost its cold coating, she rolls; pushing herself up onto her elbows and scrambling to roll onto her knees; her toes bend and throb underneath her, a single unsteady structure that continues to pulse.

She coughs and gags and _chokes; _organs in her chest bend and smash against, snarl and fight for some sort of dominance; they squeeze and press and shake and pulse in ways they never should have, pulse and pulse against skin and bone, tremors that wreck the edges and threaten to bruise and break even more. She inhales once, a sharp rejected attempt to breathe and she regrets it imidetly as a copper taste coats her mouth and pinches and snips the inside of her nose with the same current of electricity.

And then she spits.

Copper coats the ground; one single red smear splattering out before her, smearing and digging itself into the dirt, swiftly coating the nearly white surface with the single splash of color, dust bends and floats around the splatter as it settles; drifting up into the air.

Her arms shake for a moment; quaking, about to collapse, impossibly unsteady but somehow still standing – but her eyes are the opposite, steady and fixed on that single streak of deep, pure, dark rich crimson on the dirt before her; unwavering, and slowly getting wider as it collapses into the earth; seeping out and being absorbed. Her eyes do the same; growing increasingly larger in the following seconds, and then, she coughs again.

The same, slick, wet substance splashes against the ground, with enough force that some of the droplets swing back around, drip and cling to her lower jaw; sliding along the skin leaving ruby colored trails and spreading out slowly as they go – going, going up until the moment there's no more substance to form a trail with.

She shakes in the aftermath, and slowly a whimper falls from her lips; landing directly below her, the soft noise causing a vibration in the crawling puddle; ripples skimming out across it, causing the pale light, coming from _somewhere_, to bend and shake, but not collapse.

She goes to draw in a breath, and she does just that; her small, tiny structure made by toes and elbows gives out completely, struck down by some invisible force; and her limbs collapse underneath her, and in turn, she falls onto her stomach; the center of impact.

She's scrambling, hands shaking, fingers curling and gripping the dirt as she all but throws herself onto her back as the realization hits her; terror floods her mind, gripping at its edges and yanking, attempting to pull it apart; loosen the once neatly knit blanket. It coats the back of her neck in some sort of slick material and attempts to travel downwards; coat her shoulder blades, but as her breathing picks up – tinged at the edges of panic, she fights tooth and nail to keep it from doing so; she fights, and scrambles and runs and sprints towards some sort of idea of self control.

Another whimper escapes her lips; but this time, it's laced with something else other than just simple, raw pain. Physical pain is simple, she can see it; she can assess the damage on the outside and she can figure out its cause. Internal pain, however is not; organs bleeding on the inside, pain – agony sharp enough that they think blood must be released to heal the wound, but the wound is on the inside – not healable by the blood they pump for it.

The whimper is laced with fear; worry, unadulterated to the point where it forms and stabs into the vertebra of her spine; wiggling itself in between the nooks and crannies where bone meets bone; covering the almost, wire-like nerves. She swallows; something slipping into her mouth and gliding along into the back over her throat – something that makes her want to move and vomit again, but she can't. So she continues to lie there; settling into the ground once more, into the welcoming, frigid surface of the earth.

Slowly, everything begins to slip – not into black, but into white; sharp and painful.

It starts at her toes; which begin to steadily throb, sliding down her feet in almost a feathery touch, ribbons gliding along, weaving and curving and gliding through the air before touching back down and wrapping around skin. Her ankles begin to hum – her calves begin to burn as someone holds flame to them; her mind slowly returns, and in its return, it rips down the walls with a sort of greed that is truly terrifying.

Her thighs are being carved open – and as skin is pulled and separated; all mentally of course, but that is what it _feels _like; someone digging a rusty blade into her leg, getting more frustrated as they go, and simply, ripping; dragging it along, ripping, ripping, ripping; as though the muscle and flesh and blood where sand that covered some sort of treasure buried deep beneath.

As the pain, and terror and dread continues to climb, the noises only get louder – cries, wails, whimpers and howls falling from her lips; the edges of her eyes are alit, tears spilling over them, an almost sob building in the back of her throat as pain floods her stomach and a tainted sense of _wrong_ fills every inch of it; and it doesn't pause, doesn't stop, it continues to climb; snarling and grappling up the wall of her chest. Seeping into her ribs and pushing past, digging and clawing into her lungs.

Squeezing into all the available space, shoving against the walls until they're packaged air tight; and then climbing back out through the tubes – into her throat, brushing against her heart and seeping into that as well, climbing under the layers of muscle, and tainting every single part of it they touch.

It crawls into the base of her throat, and wiggles upwards; crawling and dragging itself until it reaches the top of her throat, the back of her mouth; and it grabs hold of her tongue, using that as leverage as it pulls itself out – out of her mouth, out of her, out into the air; in the single form a long, sharp, ear piercing and blood curling wail.

The air rings in the aftermath; hums and vibrates.

She inhales – a sharp, bloody gasp that floods her mouth; and a strangled knot of noises continues afterwards; more wails, more howls, water filled gasps and tear soaked cries. Wrangled, snarled attempts at letters, at words; and then finally something breaks out – free of the destruction as it goes hurtling above her head, leaving her throat stripped and bare. It's a screech.

"Please!" It's a screech that rings in the air, and flies directly above – it pierces her mouth and doesn't stop there, it's flying, above her head a single, diagonal line, going and going and flying; burning up in the atmosphere, but not stopping there – never stopping. Her voice caves in the aftermath, crumbling and folding in on itself; but she squirms underneath the falling debris, wiggling and trying to fight her way to the surface. "Please! So – somebody," Her tone slowly dropping as desperation begins to bleed into it – flailing, flopping; floating into the air, drifting as it begins to fall apart.

A fish out of water.

"Please! Anyone – hello?" Her voice begins to shake as it drifts; words sloppy, ill strung and miles apart.

She swallows, and another whimper leaves her lips; muffled cries, lips curving downwards into soppy, wet disgusting lines as they part at the edges; and the beast inside her, the impossible amounts of pain, only continues to stir – stirring up the blood and damaged bits that once made up her body. She swallows; and chokes on it. "Please –"It's a wrangled, pathetic noise; covered with hopelessness.

"Somebody – please," Her eyes squint and the pure white, soft murky landscape above her head blurs; the dark, pitch black edges of tree branches at the corners of her vision do the same; playing a little dance as they fade into the distance. "Oh my stars." She whispers eventually; her voice for once, sharp and clear; only ragged and broken around the edges, but the center of her words are strong and stable. She draws in a breath then, slow and small – creaking and tinkling on the edge of collapsing once more. "I – I just fell off a cliff," The breath never leaves; it swims and waves through her lungs, painful and incredibly thick as it bumps into walls of those organs.

Her lips part, and shut; her eyes flutter, long, lazy blinks; brown vanishing beneath bruised lids, deep, dark brown that now swims in a mixture of red and white, ruby spilled colors. Her lips part again, and she continues to whisper; her voice spilling out into the air, going up in tendrils of smoke "And – and I fell through a tree." Her lips curve, downwards slightly before snapping back into its original shape, of something like a smile, her chest lifts, and the air doesn't leave. "I fell, _through_ a tree." Her eyes flutter; quick little bursts of unnatural color becoming visible before a bloody and bruised section of skin falls over them. Her lips part again and a small amount of air floats past the gap, followed by a noise; a short, bubble-like sort of noise, a cut off giggle; laced with hysteria and a center filled with fear.

"I fell off a cliff, and through a tree –"She says it one more time; and it presses against the glass, shaking the already broken foundation of her reality. She swallows again, and her eyes flutter and her mind dips and shakes and cracks a little bit further; it bleeds a little bit more, the occasional trickle quickly forming into a stream; gaining more and more hysteria and losing more control as it grows. "The Doctor is no where to be found, and I – I don't even know how badly my injuries are –" _lie._ Lie, she knows; in the back of her head she knows, and she just can't admit it, not yet. She knows that.

Her throat closes up; but the next words make it out, wiggling past flesh and springing into the air as though they were giddy, full of life; the opposite of her sorrow, and dread drenched mind. "I don't even know if he's alive." A white lie, he very well could be alive – simply regenerated, or, he could have received enough amount of damage that he wasn't even strong enough to do _that_; and died for good.

_The winds were stronger when they took him; they hurled him into the heart of the storm. You saw – You saw, you saw and watched until you couldn't see anymore, until he was gone, and then, did he look okay?_

_When you last saw him, how did he look?_

_Did he look alright to you?_

She flinches as though the voice whispering in her ear a physical thing; a creature, whispering and growling and hissing her worst fears directly besides her head; as though she could glance to the corner of her eye and be face to face with a single, pitch black eye and a gray furred face.

_I don't think he did._

She flinches again, and draws in a breath and her thoughts flicker; uncurling slowly, unlatching themselves and drifting into the darkness; and with their absence, a small, humorless smile forms on the edges of her lips. "I guess I know how bad my injuries are." A pause; a pause without a reason, she blinks; her eyes blank, deep brown orbs swimming in red, "I'm hearing voices."

Only silence meets that statement.

There's a soft click that breaks that silence, her lips parting and her tongue slowly unlatching from the roof of her mouth; finally resting; any possible words having left it. She swallows; and again another noise is produced, a small, almost gurgle of a noise. She breathes – and then, she's silent once more; her only movement the occasional blink, and the fall and lift of her chest.

"I heard voices," She breaks the silence after God knows how long – enough time, enough space for a entire star to begin; and burn up, and go out completely. Her eyes fall shut at that whisper; her chest slowly, and almost gently, caves in on itself; breathe spills past her lips, and a resigned look begins to etch itself into her features. "I heard voices." She says again; only a little louder this time. She had, heard voices and she had, let herself unhinge completely; for a single, utter moment, and surprisingly in the silence that had followed, she had found her answer. She had found herself again; and even without much stumbling.

Her chest lifts; and pain floods it, seeping into the bone and pressing lightly against her lungs – lightly, only for a moment before pressing down and seeping into them; turning the blood and tissue into concrete, and the pressure forces the air to flee; forces her to gage and gasp and squirm on the almost forest floor, stirring up dirt and creating another cloud of smoke and debris to surround her.

A cloak; but not a shield, not a safe one – one that only offers agony, and does nothing to protect her from it; nor does it offer help.

She kicks and squirms, and somehow ends up on toes, knees, more accurately, and elbows; she's also coughing and gagging, and gasping for air; for some sort of relief past the knot that's formed itself completely in her throat. Her hands twitch and fingers dig into the earth, forming momentary roots; digging and sinking into the moist dirt, before retracting; her back arching as she coughs and gags and – _splat_.

Her head rolls to the side; tipping, her now filthy hands slide and drift past the earth; failing to find a hand hold in one of the oh so many obvious options, and as her head tilts; eyes narrowing, but not by choice, as she continues to fall, her body follows.

Shoulders hit the earth with a dull thump; bicep follows; cradling the blow for forearm, wrist; and hand. Knuckles bump against the freshly dug up surface, hip smashes down, her back curving as she goes and bends the ground around it as the prominent bone touches down, despite being covered by the thin pale yellow dress; now a faint mixture of tan and nearly ripped to shreds completely. Legs crumble and knit together, feet completely frozen together; inseparable.

She blinks, and her hands; her fingers swim in and out of focus, they twitch, but fail to move further past that. She swallows; and something in her chest constricts, pressing against her breast and back, and as she exhales, it caves, the air whistles past and through her throat; before her, her hands are miles and miles away, and the deep; prominent, scarring, crimson pool only rests a few inches away.

Her eyes are closed by the time the nearly black pool is lapping at the edges of her knuckles; fingers painted deep crimson with several droplets; stained a rosy color along the edges; that coats the indicts completely.

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The world sings her awake.

Slowly it does so, while she opens her eyes, time taking is taking its own sweet time as it sways along in her general direction, coming to cover her with a gentle, thin cotton blanket. Her face, as time continues to make its way; slowly becomes covered in sunlight; that splatters and spills over her limp form. It crawls along the bruised and bloody skin, seeping in through the skin, digging into and towards her bones; crawls over and into the creases of clothing, burrowing deep within the shadow filled valleys inside them.

The shining light obscures her vision, blocks out and blurs the distant echoes of trees; no longer the sharp black, nightfall's outlines of tree branches, but instead a now painted mixture of gray and white; tangled together, and stretched out in the form of bark, tinged with the barest hint of green, moss tucked into creases between two pieces of bark.

Her eyes slowly close once more; sunlight glinting in the deep brown orbs as they vanish beneath skin, digging into and dragging out the reflective little shards of white in the large, murky red streams that have formed in the white of her eyes; and as she closes her eyes, a warm puff of breath travels across her cheek, heading for her distant hairline; and she gets the skin tingling sensation of a looming figure - just a few inches away, shifting in the bright world before her closed eyes, and it's enough to make her open them.

"Hello," It's another warm breathe. Laced with the overpowering grip of a smile, and pure, unadulterated, bubbling giddiness, almost happiness; brimming with excitement, vibrating as it leaves the owners lips.

The colors before her eyes blur and shift; wiggling against the bright blue, rich green and yellow backdrop; wiggling and squirming and smashing together, their edges blooming with light - she blinks, and it only sharps, light crackles and shatters; she squints as the shards go rushing by, and she squints as he blooms into focus.

"Hello." The Doctor says again; leaning in all in one fluid moment, nestled on his hands and knees, and distantly she hears the crunch of twigs and leaves underneath his palm, the sound of dirt and grime digging into sweat covered skin; lifting steadily from their homes in the earth.

She blinks, and he blurs and tilts, but the smile on his face remains, a strong and steady image – a handhold in it all. Sharp and pristine, a glimpse of white, truly beautiful. The same sort of blurry beauty travels along his features in the form of a light - sunlight, splashing across his cheeks and glowing in his eyes, etched and strongest in the flecks of yellow in the vivid shades of green.

She blinks; and swallows, her throat scraping against the other wall, flesh curling against flesh, with nothing to ease the touch; sand paper against sandpaper. Her lips part, just as dry, and just as cracked – as bloody, as broken; and because of it all, she cannot bring herself to speak. So he does it for her.

"Clara," He shifts on the earth before her, scooting forward; closer on hands and knees, and he's just inches away; with a sunbathed form, and a sort of glint in his eye – something on his face and in the same exact light in his eyes that she can't name; she can't think, she can't recognize it, all she can do is listen to the steady sound of underbrush being crushed beneath him.

Almost nose to nose, forehead to forehead, he stops, shifting before her as he drops onto one elbow and uses his now free hand to brush it across her face, fingertips gliding over her cheek and jaw with the feather hint of touch. "Oh Clara," He sighs; his voice caving and bending underneath some sort of unseen weight, shaking at the edges but still somehow remaining to be light, almost gentle; as if, an underlying voice, the same voice was whispering; _You'll be alright. You'll be alright. You'll be al-right. _

She swallows and watches as he suddenly dips before her; shattering out of focus, smearing all together and nearly vanishing from sight; and with that, the loss of him, the pain floods her; crashing into the front part of her skull without warning, sharp and fierce, little claws and flames digging into her mind, that momentarily, there is nothing – nothing but pain, agony and a wish, the prayer for death to take her.

And then he's back; hand still on her face, the barest echo of touch; the slight hint of a smile on his face, still bathed in the same, vivid, bright, drifting light casted from the faint blue sky above their heads. She blinks and watches as he continues to shift before her, scooting closer, just a few inches; and underneath him, she hears the soft crunch of leaves; and as she focuses on the noise, something slowly begins to click; dragging outwards, and uncurling.

Her fingers twitch, "Wait." She says; and it's painful. Painful to speak, painful to swallow, painful to breath; the lower section of her throat is enflamed, it's swollen beyond belief, and she finds her hazy and murky mind wishing she could cut it out.

He waits; stilling, and tilting slightly before her eyes; swaying side to side, his crouched over form, but eventually the swaying stops and he comes to rest; graced with a sort of angelic beauty, littered and cracked with light; free of bruises, or scratches, or a single drop of miss spilled blood. His clothes are vivid, blooming, and far too alive with their original colors. She swallows, despite the pain it causes because she know it will hurt her less than the words she's about to speak.

"You're not real, are you?" A small pause; but she slams through it, the large, thick wall of glass in her thoughts and keeps on fighting, keeps running despite the jagged pieces cutting at her ankles and ripping at her flesh because she can't stop to think about her words. She can reflect later, not now. Because she can't afford to stop, can't afford to get attached. "I'm hallucinating, aren't I?"

He lets out a low, strangled noise; it dips, drags onwards, skipping across the ground and turning over the debris it hits; it slides, and continues sliding, until it's gone, or she can't hear it anymore. But when it finally stops, it lifts; lifts and floats upwards with her name. "Oh, Clara, Clara."

And when he speaks, when he moves a bit closer; so they're nose-to-nose, his hand still resting on her cheek, but no longer floating, for it could be as heavy as concrete. When he speaks, she feels it; the flicker of hope, a bright, vivid, orange and yellow flame in her chest; right on top of her struggling heart. She then watches as his eyes slowly drift shut; perfect shades of green, and gray and yellow, and a glossy white with a hint of pink vanishing from sight; as he tilts his forehead so their pressed together, she watches – never shuts her eyes, she imagines like this, so close, that she could count his eye lashes.

And then his eyes open, and she can see every single fleck of color. Every vivid and wild shade of green, every calm and mellow and peaceful hint of gray, and with this gift, the sight of him, truly him, the history of everything he is, what he's feeling, who he will be, because eyes are doors to the soul, another warm breath brushes across her cheek, followed by a low, trembling, but light tone of voice.

"Yes. You are. I am not real."

A squeak escapes her; and in the bubble of that noise, it happens; he doesn't burst, but one second he's solid, steady, _warm_, and the next he isn't. He's floating, separating, forming into little orbs; some retaining color, others slowly mixing together to turn into a dull, murky white; and she's left to watch, as those orbs, almost bubble like, but oh so very solid, break apart or mesh together, but in the end they all do one single thing – they float. They float, and float and float, up until she can't see them, and as her eyes tilt upwards, struggling to follow, she watches as the sky slowly changes from light blue; to a dark, slaughtering, midnight blue. Almost the color of the TARDIS, but just a bit, darker.

She watches those orbs, now reflecting light; until they are gone, and then her gaze flicks forward; but she realizes with a start, her head had never moved, her neck never craned back. She never physically looked in any other direction.

She'd been staring at the same shadow casted, ruin of a landscape.

The noise from earlier settles, and dribbles off her lip; she shuts them, and shuts her eyes against the small breeze that picks up; she shifts, and moves her hand, creating the exact same noise that the Doctor had done when he moved; the steady, and soul-wrenching sound of dead leaves and sticks breaking and swooshing together; the crackle of the dead already dying.

She swallows, and her fingers curl over the edges of the leaves; scrunching them up, and pinching them between completely numb digits. She then exhales, ignoring the agony that spreads out from her heart and over her chest; and then slowly, she rolls onto her side, and pushes herself up, feeling her way along with numb hands and distant forearms.

She's sitting up; almost blind, the shadow covered, blue bathed landscape around her is distant and slaughtered from going by what she can see.

She slowly starts to feel the space around her; fingers inching their way along, feeling physical things; such as weight but not yet texture; nor the warmth, or lack of it; but she finds what she's looking for, her fingers curl around her ankles – and like a live wire, she can feel it; feel the brush of skin, at least on one side of the door of the opened door. Her fingers can poke and prod, and be free of the sensation, but her legs feel every single jab made by those ruined fingers.

She shifts in her spot, turning slightly; and every single glance is the same one, the same shot of the landscape, bathed in blue, and covered in shadows, edges that blur together and are impossible to separate. She turns back around and looks forward – or what, could be forward, and in her mind now is; the same and original direction she was facing.

Her hands skid across her calf, she swallows; something clicks and prods, the beginning of a decision, an idea; a string of thoughts. She waits, and it clicks again; and so does she.

She moves, shifts; pushes and grunts her way onto her knees, and she doesn't stop there. She continues moving, forcing and growling as she gets her feet underneath her; limp and distant things, frozen solid; and finally, as the growl builds and develops she lets it out her mouth; in the form of a howl, and a screech, that floods the air and booms on the inside of it; it thrives, and expands and doesn't stop.

She continues, until she's balancing on two feet. Her shoulders shake, lift and fall in ragged and broken beats; her chest is screaming; lit a flame completely on the inside, but there's nothing left to burn – it's hollow, cotton like around the edges. She's stuck with a flame inside her chest. She pulls in a breath slowly, and attempts to straighten her stance; and everything sways, tilting from one side to the next, and somehow, she staggers – forward a few inches, feet skidding and sliding on the damp earth but she manages to stay upright. She doesn't even realize she's moved until she isn't, until she's standing nearly two feet away from her original location.

She turns then, glancing over her shoulder; at the clear, sharp indent in the earth, and at its head-like shape at the very top, and few inches to the right of that, there is a thick, black imprint on the ground; dried up blood; enough liquid to soak into the earth and leave that imprint, and enough that some still remained; cupped in the belly's of bent in leaves. And as she turns, one hand comes to wrap around her belly, gliding over it; over the impossibly warm flesh; flesh that slowly pools heat into the palm of her hand, spreading towards her fingertips; not in the form of blood, but instead, thankfully, pure and collective body heat.

She turns back around; and slowly, she begins to speak; her voice is alone, and it crawls onwards; slowly slinking through the silence, impossibly tiny.

"What does that mean?" Her fingers bend around the bulge, reaching upwards and towards the bottom section of her rib; and as she speaks, her other arm lifts and curls around on top of its companion; hand pressed flat on the other side, fingers spread out like feathers on a wing. "What does this mean?" The overflowing warmth, and as she muses; her ideas floating into the air with a physical form as she staggers along, she receives no answer.

"Is it a good thing?"

Nothing.

She pauses then, and turns back; the environment around her is changed completely, she's approaching a cracked section of earth, or rocks; a hill, and behind her there is a gathering, a cluster, better put, a wall of trees; thick and black, strong and solid outlines with collective branches that poke and weave together.

The air around her is slightly lighter; no longer a deep, ugly and terrifying midnight blue, but instead a soft, murky, grayish-blue color. Every single feature of the surrounding land is blended with it, slowly revealing more; revealing the cracks in the rocks before her, and the outline of bark on the trees behind her, the small plants poking upwards at their bottoms, gently resting against their trunks.

It's earlier in the day, time has continued to walk; that is her conclusion in this change, and in this conclusion, and acceptance there is a drop of horror – she lost track of time, and all the white it decided to go on, to tick; all without her awareness. And in the end, she isn't surprised; time has, and always will do that. It abides to no one.

She also comes to the conclusion it's almost morning; a drop of excitement with that, but also a bigger plummet of horror, which drops inwards; hitching a ride and mixing together with the excitement completely without consent, and it does so because with the morning, things will be revealed; the full extent of damage, to the surrounding area, to the lives lost, to her injuries and to the possibility of the death of the Doctor.

She turns around and looks forward once more, at the cracked and devastated hill before her; and then continues walking, staggering forward, stumbling, stumbling, stumbling and slipping; feet sliding against the damp earth; the coldness only continues to sink into her toes, imbedding itself into it and slowly spiraling up into the bone; slowly attempting to cut off her nerves, her only sense of attachment. She continues, pushing through the impossibly cold, and quickly fading ground, up until the moment she's standing on front of it; the bolder created hill, and then, with slightly rewarmed hands, she moves them; reaching outwards and pressing them against the face of the closest bolder; the rock thrives against her touch, the cold imidetly seep into her palms and greedily sucking out the warmth.

She swallows; her chest lifts, the flame snuffles, her belly continues to radiate some unnatural heat, and her fingers slowly uncurl and curl around the surface of the boulder; grime and gravel brushing against her digits and sticking to them; she brushes them, from side to side, left to right; and considers it, as the heat is swiftly removed from her flesh; cut out and away within seconds, sliced out completely as though this heat-sucking rock was a surgeon at work. By the time she pulls her hands away, a quick snap of movement; she has made her decision.

With a small amount of regret she places her hands back onto the bolder, now feeling around with intent – with intention, as they stick and prod and fight their way into the creases of the rock, pushing out small bits of gravel to get in. She digs them in; knuckles quickly scraping against the fierce and unforgiving snarling surface of the rock; skin being pulled back, she tugs a bit; testing out how strong the broken flesh is, and when she's satisfied, she lifts her foot; feeling along with that digit for an extended jut of rock, and when she finds it, she digs her heel into it and pulls herself upwards.

She arches her back as she climbs; stomach kept a few inches away from the unforgiving cold and surface, her mind is plagued; coated, covered in the single goal and thought: _Get over the rock. Keep your stomach away from the surface. _She continues climbing, and it only takes a few steps in all honesty; but those steps seem like miles, her muscles are screaming; a lit; her body is no longer cold, but now on fire and that fire simply continues to create and burn on her agony.

And after a few steps, she reaches the top; the slightly bent in, but flat surface; she spreads her hands out over it and heaves; a series of noises, nor a whimper, nor a moan, pour from her lips as she struggles to keep her stomach – her child – at a safe distance from the heat sucking substance. But she manages, with her feet scrapping and toes bending against it, she manages to stagger on, knees smashing against the surface and spilling; and afterwards she lays there, on her back; chest heaving with a whirling tornado of flame inside it, except now the flame itself is cold, and cold enough to still create some agony.

Her chest falls, and she makes the decision, she places her hands underneath her with some new found strength and pushes herself to sit up, lifting her legs in the same motion; wrapping her arms around her knees, and then turning to crawl to the edge of the rock, promising herself that once she's climbed down the other side she'll find somewhere and rest, maybe, but she doubts it, sleep.

She reaches the edge and glances down; it's only about five feet away, but the thought of climbing down that, with her already singing limbs and floating mind, makes her want to vomit; makes her stomach pinch and throat churn, and her head pound and cut off any thoughts.

_But_, a deep voice snarls in the back of her mind; rich and wild; unnatural and thick, _you can't stay up here, you'll freeze to death, exposed like this in the cold. _

She lets out a small sigh and her fingers curl around the edge of the rock; fingers spreading out and gently resting on the sharp curve, pressing against the top of creases, and slowly, one hand uncurls, feeling around, reaching downwards for the bottom of its crease; it finds it, and in it, she has found another hand hold. She shifts then, pulling herself closer and lets out another small sigh.

"Great," The word leaves her throat in a clipped noise, and it's ragged and painful as it goes; dragging along the top of her mouth and fleeting outwards; enough pressure that it adds tears to the edges of her eyes, and part of her argues that she doesn't need to speak, and she yells right back that she needs to or that when the time comes and she truly _needs _to, she won't be able to. "I'm hearing voices again."

And although, this one did not sound as though it was yelling in her ear, or hissing for her demise and had been, inside her own head, it's still a voice and a strong one none the less.

She lets out one final sigh; admitting to herself, that while talking may prove the help, sighing will not; so she cuts the noise off half way, sealing her lips against it; instead focusing on finding one other hand hold; but she gets distracted, because in the death of her noise; a new one is born, a real one.

A voice, that isn't inside her head – and it's only got to be about twenty feet away at most.

"_I'm just telling you to hurry up, Ste –" _

She swallows and hope brandishes the bottom of her throat; sparking and blooming, brushing together inside the top of her chest, bumping against her collar bone in light and relaxful little flashes. The very first pain free thing she's felt in hours; and it's enough to form a smile on her lips.

She doesn't even care that the owner of the voice is oh so very agitated, laced with a sort of unnatural judgment. All she cares about is the fact that someone else is alive, two people, going by his sentence – and in this caring nature, in this excitement, a flicker of doubt occurs; the voices inside her mind mush together and threaten to whisper, threaten to feed and give in to her doubts and let them grow (_You may be hallucinating again, they may not even be real._); but she blocks it out, focusing on the small, well lit firer of joy brandishing inside her, licking at her lungs and smoking across her ribs, brandishing them in a painless way, giving them warmth, warming up her frigid organs and mind, instead of burning and turning them into ash like every fire as done so far; but, somehow this fire still manages to consume her.

Because in her excitement, and joy, and first amounts of happiness and hope in hours, she had found her handhold, only she had failed to grab it and so she slipped; sliding down over the edge of the rock, not even having a second of recollection for the ground hurtling towards her, because the second she realized she was falling, she had already hit it; falling face first and as she fell, the well controlled flames exploded; pounded into her chest and flashed and flickered and turned everything inside to ash; they destroyed her completely, whipped out any hope she held in a second split, without a single tendril of smoke left in tack.

Forehead, face, neck, shoulder, stomach, awkwardly bent legs.

That is the order of how she hits the ground.

Her forehead hits the ground first; and a sickening crack fills her ears, and for a moment, she doesn't know what's happened, she doesn't think she's fallen, she doesn't think the blood swiftly covering her forehead is hers – she thinks it's a dream, or that this is somehow a misguided thought, because it _can't_ be real, but as her crumbling continues, as her nose smashes into the earth and eyes are filled with pain and something awful crams its way into her mouth, she knows it is.

Her neck touches down with another snap, her shoulders throb; her chest aches and her heat flutters like a humming bird caught in a cage, and pain is flooding her veins; swimming and choking them. And as her stomach hits the ground, the snarled mass of leaves and sticks, she's certain something leaves her mouth – a noise of a defeat, a desperate whimper laced with tears; and a mother's unwavering fright for her child – because she worked so hard, _so hard_ to prevent this; to protect herself and the child that she carried – and _she failed_.

Her thighs hit the earth; and the earth caves around them, supporting them, set up sticks dig into her flesh and snap and crack, and drag across the once soft flesh, now filthy skin; but she doesn't care about the pain that floods them, and digs in – in fact, it's a distant echo; something completely unimportant because, as the tears finally begin to fall once more; sliding down her cheeks without forgiveness, she doesn't care; she can't keep fighting, not anymore.

Her calves don't fall, her knees sink into the earth, into the crack where the bolder meets moss, impeccably soft moss, they don't fall though, they lean back and rest against the cold, snarled, grimy surface; her feet are posed, slanted and pointed in the direction of the sky.

She pulls in a breath, and slowly she begins to slip away – the pressing weight of reality, of her inability to fix this, because she can't fix this, she can't get up and look for the Doctor, she can't get up and call for the distant voices, and she can't fix the damage she just caused her child because she was too wrapped up in her own excitement.

"_Just hurry up, Steaphen, I mean it – or I'm leaving you."_

They get closer, and she gets further away.

And that is the last thing she hears, because the darkness, oh so very unforgiving in the early part of the morning sweeps in, brandishing its mark without hesitation, or without forgiveness; it sweeps in and cuts off her mind from body, quick, agile swipes; and then, it rips her mind apart; smashes against her and slices and burns until she's gone – until she's unconscious; and surprisingly, this time around she welcomes it – she welcomes her destruction, she lets herself be broken, finally, because everything around her now has done the same.

Or, it's been broken for a while; she's just coming to terms with that.

She doesn't blink against the blood that brushes over her eyelids – she can't, all she can do is keep her eyes shut and feel the brush of blood, and embrace the way it sweeps and coats over her skin; and as it begins to stick and clump her eyelashes together, she's gone.

And so are the voices.

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The world returns in a build up; in a slow, churning noise and than an explosion – not literally, of course, but that is what it feels like. It was silent, and then slowly, everything begin to tick again, hearts began to start, plants began to wake up, uncurl and bloom; a build up, the ticking of the bomb, followed by the grand finally; an explosion.

The explosion that had simply been the snarled, ragged gasp that leapt from his throat; tearing up and ripping apart everything in its path, leaving blood to coat the wounds, which it certainly did going by the copper taste in his mouth; the gasp that left his mouth as his eyes flashed open and his body heaved and sputtered and clicked, and all together failed to function.

Sharp light flooded his eyes and continued to flow over his mind; smashing into it and slicing through it in bolts; in the form of lightening, it sliced through and cut off any emotion, cut off thoughts; forcing him to pay attention, to wake up, but even with every single sensor roaring around him, he can't do that; he's trapped, in the storm of shouts and blinded by the colors; cut off completely from who he is – his cause, his mind, his memories, he's entrapped, in a living hell created by the own ruins of his very physical being, in his burning mind; something that's broken and is now trying to stitch itself together, but the damage is so evident, that nothing can be fixed.

All he knows, is light of different shades – or it may just be white; maybe he sees nothing and these are just the burning after images of who he was - and agony.

His chest is heaving as his body squirms on the earth, hands fluttering; feet kicking, eyes sharp and wild and oh so very blind, thriving in a bright red backdrop as light danced across them; unknowing of his lack of sight, free to frolic and flicker and dance without the fear of being absorbed, to bring out the highlights of the red and show the true horror that resides within them; which has completely and utterly replaced the whites of his eyes.

The following shout that escapes his lips after the gasp that had awoken him yanks him together; bringing all the shrapnel of a man, and turning him back into a bomb; the roaring in his ears, turns away and drifts away; peels apart and slices away, withdraws into a single sound, piece by piece and even though the sound is one from the deepest pits of Hell, it begins to fix them: the screams, of Clara Oswald, ringing in his ears.

The light dancing before his eyes peels back as well; it licks and separates, pieces of fabric being torn back from his eyes to reveal the dull, thick, murky landscape and sky surrounding him.

He blinks, and watches as the threads vanish and pull away.

"Clara!" His voice is a wreck and the fact that her name comes out as a screech and develops into a howl and only continues to grow into a scream, certainly doesn't help. It rings and shatters and _growls_ and snarls and climbs and clambers; it's alive and wild, and vivid. His scream fills the air around him and slaughters any noise that may have remained bubbling in his ears, cutting off the distant echoes of her shouts completely, like a song forgotten, it destroys and rips apart the remnants of the light that had dances before his eyes; it ends everything, and gives him a clean slate to work with.

He stills completely in the aftermath; the flame in his mind as been snuffed out but it decides to relocate; shooting down his throat and into his chest, where it now continues to burn; a star, burning inside his chest, whipping at the tissue and bone and flesh without a thought for the agony it causes. He blinks; and his vision dips, it swims, he cannot control that, he cannot control the way his hands begin to shake and fingers dig into the earth and the flame continues to bloom; seeping into his bones and through the skin, passing over his neck and spreading down his back, fluffing up the skin it touches and creating several new layers of sweat.

Layers of sweat that melt away, and reveal this new reality; they cool on his skin, slick and damp, and sink away, sliding down his forehead and collecting some of the grime and debris, whipping him off before falling in the form of little filthy drops into the dirt; and as it passes over him, his vision crackles and clears, and with a clean prospective he can take in the reality around him.

The new reality, that imidetly introduces itself; that walks right up to him, and holds out its hand, and tells him that this is Hell, and its own, simple and main goal is to make sure he sees that and it continues to tell him that he has woken up in the climax of the apocalypse. And he imidetly learns that it is oh so very correct, and also one where he finds himself wishing he'd rather not have woken up at all – or at least, in a new body; because in the lack of a new one, is a gaping hole; a scar, a stretch of land in the form of a valley filled with thousands and thousands of questions, and without a bottom.

His chest lifts once more and slowly, the edges of his mind begin to lick and form something; ushering itself back together, picking up the remaining bits from the crash and attempt to build the resemblance of a work mind, but finding little work with because it had burned up comply when it went down, he was lucky it stopped in the first place, but however it had not stopped of its own accord but because it had crashed and then, he had gone up in flames; but still he was lucky it stopped.

Well, more correctly; something has crashed onto him, going by the large amount of debris covering the left section of his chest; something that could have been an engine, given what he can see of it, and what he can_ feel_; metallic poles and sticks digging deep into his skin, blood pooling around the top of the wounds along with splattering over it. The weight of it all having pressed down hard enough, after destroying his skin, ripping it apart completely to expose everything inside, to have crushed the bottom half of his left lung and the damage only begins there, it's broken the ribs within its reach; turned any organs within inches of it to mush, and is currently sinking slowly into the top part of his thigh, ripping and tearing apart muscles, sliding through the flesh with every intent of going through to the other side and settling only after it manages to do just that, along with the sole purpose of killing him.

And it may very well do both of those things.

His eyes slowly withdraw from the damage, dull orbs of green floating in a sea of red and glossed over completely, and his head falls back against the earth with a soft thunk, and now that one of his lungs is suddenly aware that it cannot do its job – it is doing just that, refusing to give him the proper amount of oxygen when he so desperately needs it; and without it, his body slowly begins to give out, dragging along as everything begins to fade outwards; and in a mixture of panic and fear, he tries to find the sky.

Because the sky, is real, it's something he can hold onto – but, he cannot even do that; not with his eyesight beginning to regress and fail him. Not with the darkness licking at his heels, breathing down his neck and crawling around in the edges of his eyes; desperate and growling low in his ear, ready to strike as soon as he closes his eyes, and gives up.

But one thing he can find however, is a reason to hold on, to breathe through the agony with his one lung, which is _swimming_ in blood, to try and fight the darkness lurking around like a hungry dog, to keep his eyes open and not go down without a fight; he can find a reason to bargain with it, and that is so simple:

_Clara. _

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**AN'S: I suppose, I should apologize, for taking this supposed to be fluffy, and filled to the brim happiness fic, and turning it completely on its head by creating this (chapter). But, I won't apologize (don't worry though, I do feel a bit of remorse) I will instead, thank you all. **

**I would like to personally point out those who thanked/congratulated me on my style of writing (Accidentalwhouffle, demino , Guest, 7Seven7 TemptedReader and **_**Anonguest**_**) because I am often ridiculed on my style of writing and have quite a bit of doubt in it given that others say it is too descriptive and to know that there are people who enjoy it, truly means a lot to me. **

**And as for the other reviews go, I will continue this story (although, due to exams, I don't know when the next chapter will be out, though the next one or two chapters will probably be a continuation of this one) and I'm glad you all like and enjoy this story!**

**I should probably mention, **_**how**_** the Doctor & Clara ended up on this situation; the Doctor wanted to take his very pregnant companion to a beautiful leisure planet for a walk/stroll/relaxation day..and it just turned out to be every the opposite of that.**

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I did writing it, leave a review and tell me if you did.**

**- Fanficanon**


	4. (Updated with a preview) Author's Notes

This fic will be on **hiatus** until **August** for _**personal reasons**_, I apologize in advance, and would like to make a statement that those reasons are the same ones as to why I have not updated recently.

Below the bolded text is a preview/what I have managed to write for the next chapter.

**This fic will be continued upon my return. **

**No matter what.**

**It will not be abandoned. **

**(Below the '***' is unedited, so there will undoubtedly be mistakes, you are warned.) **

**Preview: **

He's starting to think that he'll have to reconsider and redefine, his definition, and understanding of the word _pain_.

Because what he's in – what his body is stirring up and creating from the ashes and muck of its own destruction is resolving around that single four letter word, caught within its orbit, but at the same time has begun to expand and explode and fly miles and eons past it. He's far past pain. What he's feeling, has bloomed from that word and it's traveling, fluttering on different wave lengths.

He's far past misery and agony; those are nothing more than little check marks on the scale he's already left far behind; stars, that have burned up all their gases and died – and yet, their light is still etched into the darkness still light still reaching out to him. Flickering, about to fade away because he has done the same, and still is. He is floating, he is nothing except the physical form that is consumed and cradled within the depths of what could be Hell. He is – he could be, dead.

He wishes he was.

That thought is like a lightning bolt, it's red-hot and zaps his skin, lifting it up and prickling every inch of the surface; then it sinks; pooling outwards before smashing, pulling back together and attempting to cave him in. Slowly, crawling along centimeter by centimeter; pathetically wiggling through his flesh, burning up any skin it has crossed and any in its way; the thought, slowly begins to wind everything down; his request for death, threatens to kill him.

It stops everything eventually; his breathe winding down to a dull, distant dance created by his lips and nose – desperately grasping for oxygen, and finding none – desperately grasping for straws and finding they've all been cut to short; his overly pathetic, and slightly crushed hearts begin to flutter less so, his vision flickers – turns off and turns on - yanking back the curtain only to reveal the dimly lit shadows; the tops of tree's bathed in early morning light – the barest hint of blue, a miracle compared to the deep darkness that had threatened to engulf him hours before.

And he knows, as his clock's work begins to wind down; the hands begin to cease their movement, and the soft gentle, reassuring tick goes silent, he's just waiting it, for nothing, for Death.

But it doesn't come.

Instead he inhales again; someone finally getting the next step in the dance correct, air slowly curling into his mouth and pooling in the back of his throat; it's so sweet; sweet enough to bring tears to his eyes - the barest hint of hope buried within oxygen – that he may not die, that he may escape this lingering between life and death; but as he tries to swallow it, his hope is snuffed out like a flame without a single thought from the hand to the moth that had danced around it, clinging to the beacon in the darkness. His body chokes on it; retaliating with the sharp taste of copper that smacks through the air; dispelling and erasing its existence, completely whipping it out, coating the back of his throat.

He parts his lips then; attempting to dispel some of the liquid that has pooled in the back of his mouth, by ushering it out the edges of that very vessel, and with the movement the air sweeps in once more – no longer bringing the hope that precious breathe had carried with it before, but instead the heavy sinking, reeking scent of his own death.

His heart, the single one, barely touched and free of any decay – its twin having taken most of the damage, splattered with shrapnel and turned to almost mush by the engine pressing against it. Jabbed; torn open and gapping; all caused by the broken, and snapped off surrounding bones, left completely and utterly defenseless in the wake of its destruction. All at the cost of protecting the opposite organ just like it – flutters; freezes, and squeezes and just simply _flutters_ again, unsure of what to do with the scent that has slowly begun to wrap itself around it – squeezing out any remaining oxygen without mercy, and on the curve of the flutter, he forces himself to breathe in – to breathe through the murky and dusty smell, tinged and tinted with a sharp covering of something just purely _wrong_. He battles to inhale, to ride out the flutter and keep the sole organ beating at a steady tempo; to stop it's trembling fits, caused by impure air, he fights not to spit out that very said air, surrounded by, drowning in the blood that engulfs his mouth and blocks his throat.

Because he _needs_ to breathe, needs to focus on something, something other than the seemingly sweet possibility of dying – of this all being over in a moment's notice. And he can, if he tries hard enough; so pushing past the foggy curtain of deliria, caused by dancing on the brink of Death itself, he forces himself to breathe; to pull in air, to push through, or go around, climb over the raw feeling of his ribs cracking, shifting and expanding around his mangled lungs. He tries to consume, engulf, tries to _live_ in the thought that if he survives this – it will be worth it in the long run, that he'll forget the pain, he won't remember this agony, it'll be dull, a subtle echo in the back of his mind that he will never feel again, it'll be nothing more than a nightmare, already forgotten once he's left the bed and it's cooling sheets to begin his day.

But he knows it's a lie; that his wishes, and frail hope are nothing more than wishful thinking, knows it in that sole trembling organ, in the very bottom of it – his thoughts, murky and drifting as they be reflect this back at him; show him the through the fog – he will always remember this pain, he will feel it's claws, sometimes echoes strong enough he swore they could draw blood, and he will feel surprise when he finds his skin untouched, free of any cracks or any red smears on the surface.

He knows, deep down that he will never forget this. * * *

And he ignores it, pulling in another breath through metallic coated lips, and then promptly gives a strained exhale through his nose; inhaling once more, and taking the pain that it conquers up, and using that to stay awake – to crank himself back into some sort of working order. To reconstruct his already destroyed and broken mind; attempting to find a flickering ember in the remains of charcoal.

In the back of his thoughts, he also knows he has to construct some sort of idea – or a plan, because lying under a good section of debris, is not a sustainable option for much longer; and Regeneration seems to have fallen under the same category. He has to get out, or he'll die – and he will stay that way.

Something hisses in his ear, that dying no longer seems so bad, and again he pushes that voice away, focusing on his breathing; the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way the air feels curling up in his nose – the acid scent to it, which is without a doubt a combination of the blood and metal surrounding him. And as if the very thought of the smell triggers something deep inside, he finds himself snorting and gasping in the next seconds – his lungs and throat churning, pushing and scrambling and clawing against each other; and in the midst of their fighting, he's become restless, squirming on his back, howling and coughing and gagging on his own blood – the echo of panicked and startled howls fill his ears; and his mind bathes in the noise – he doesn't realize until much, much later that those were his screams.

His own agony, created in a crisp, loud and vibrate chorus of shouts and howls; noises of unadulterated pain and grief.

The noise has faded, brimming and lapping at the edges of his ears when he finally manages to regain some control over his breathing; his throat is burning; the edges of his eyes are on fire, his chest is now nothing more than an empty grave.

He's not even sure if his heart – his one, single, fragile working heart, is doing that anymore.

He'll find out in a few seconds.

He blinks; and lets the tears trickle from the edges of his eyes, his head falling back against the cold, dead ground in the next absence of a heartbeat; he blinks again, staring up at the endless sky over his head.

The very first layer of the backdrop above his head is not completely black – but not blue, stuck somewhere in between and muddled because of it; clouded over with different shades of the same color, and a top of that layer, there are clouds, dark, lifeless and etched, scars into the dark depressing landscape which they drift above, and at the far edges of his vision he can see the sharp black and twisting tops of trees.

In between those tangled, black scars that make up the branches he can see flecks of white; small, eons and miles and lifetimes away, star.

He blinks again and the liquid in his eyes pools together at one side, blurring out his vision momentarily, he tries to blink it away but fails to clear his vision completely, he's still left bleary eyed after a few fatal attempts, so he gives up; and just continues staring at the distant skyline.

He pulls in a breath and doesn't watch it form centimeters from his face; instead, he focuses on the feeling crawling along his skin – crawling, along with clawing downwards, digging underneath what unbroken and cracked skin he has left and peeling it back in long, ugly valleys – deep and crisp, and oh so very ragged; the slick, jagged feeling that destroys and rips at his flesh – and coats his back, covers his skin and feels just as real as the sweat and blood that does the same.

It's disappointment, fear – and agony. He shouldn't be surprised really, of course it is; he's always in agony, the dull, burning feeling lapping in his chest is a constant reminder of that – and the fact that that feeling isn't fading, nor seems to be going anywhere any time soon is another reminder of the reality surrounding him – the new slick landscape that he's stuck in, cradled and locked up in with no hope of escape.

He has to do something – and he's know that for a while, considered it; turned the thought over in his mind as easily as though it was a ball within his grip, but somehow, as he really begins to formulate it, it becomes covered with thorns; thorns that poke and prod and dig into his skin, urge and whisper at him not to do anything – not this.

But he does it anyway.

He pulls in a breath; and feeling floods him, the sensation of his body, singing and vibrating – nerves, struggling and fluttering to life, sparking with newfound electricity, and eventually he finds what he's looking for; his hands twist in the blood soaked, dried and crisp leaves underneath his hands; little bits of metal dig and etch into his palms, which only enforce the feeling, pushes back the frost – despite the hair being warm and heavy around them – and the numbness to the edges of his blackened fingers.

He wishes he could move slowly, but he doesn't have time for that; so instead, he structures his mind to think of this like ripping off a band aid – one big, painful band aid which will hurt a lot more once it's off but he's got to do this.

His hands smack into his chest; arms lifting and threatening to float away, the heavy and overpowering sensation of finally being able to move again swings from side to side, and he ignores it, instead focusing on what he has to move and why.

The closest and less obvious piece of debris is a few inches downwards from his left shoulder; his right hand crawls towards it; each digit shaking, vibrating on its own separate and different wavelength. He uses the torn up, remains of his shirt to get closer, each centimeter counts; and as he pulls in another breathe – something rattling on the inside of his single ribcage – his fingers, three digits, rap around the very top of the twisted metal.

He pulls in another breathe at the sensation; a deep, sucking and wild amount of air; the tug of an ocean, the same amount of water being pulled back in, except this time he doesn't let it out – instead he tugs, fighting against the current, and pulls.

The scrap of metal fights him at first, but as his fingers get a little tighter around the top of it, fingerprints leaving faint and impossibly small bloody lines, it begins to give; bending to his will, and he drags it upwards – just a few centimeters, and the feeling of his skin parting around it; fighting just as hard to not let go, is agonizing.

He grinds his jaw against the pain; his vision blossoms behind closed eyes, and a low groan snarls and hurtles into life around the same time that white, tinged with red, floods his eyes, and it pushes past his tightly closed lips, and into the air around him.

The groan is cut short, because in one final, not so lucid act, he yanks the metal out; one quick, fluid movement, and tosses it as far away as he can – and he doesn't hear it hit the ground, for all he knows he could have just tossed it into eternity, and he wouldn't care.

Because he's too busy grinding his jaw – and fighting against his mind; two parts of him have smashed together, repeitadly, not just one blow, but dozens, over and over and over again, smashing and grinding together, greating dust and flames and smoke. His mind is screaming, hollering over the fact that he'll have to do that God knows how many times; and that they're no denying it, no pushing it off, saving it for a later date, because he has to do it _now_.

And one, whimpering, weak, futile part of him is arguing that he doesn't _have_ to do that; but his only other option is to give up, to close his eyes and allow his skin to pale until it matches the creamy winter of some distant planet – whose name he has already forgotten – and sink into the deep, rich earth around him; nestled amongst the crunched leaves and moss, surrounding by unfamiliar trees, and wait for Death's arms to slowly ascend from beneath him, and pull him in for good; through the dark moss, and through the frozen ground – into the soft, almost welcoming brown dirt that lies beneath all this Hell.

And as much as an option as that is, it isn't one for him; so with shaky hands, he begins to feel for the next sliver of metal – because the landscape on his eyes is still black, and he can't bring himself to open them, and he imagines he won't be able to any time soon, because the sensation of the looping blood pooling down from the thick slice in his shoulder, and sinking into his clothing, pinning it against his skin, is enough, he doesn't need to bring sight into the mixture.

His fingers brush over the next jagged scrap, and the tips of them begin to climb upwards, sliced and slowly ripped open by the never ending meshed together edge of the blade, and eventually he just gives up; grabbing a chunk in the middle section, wrapping his hand around it, and forcing his eyes open – and _pulls_.

At first, all he can hear is the snarling, grinding sound of his jaw; and he expects to feel dust in his mouth, or at least flakes, fragments of broken teeth; but instead, all he gets is that same, familiar metallic coat, and nothing more. He waits and waits and waits – eons pass, as the sharp jagged ugly piece of metal scrapes against his already torn apart skin, and spills out into the air; and as the last few centimeters crawl outwards, dragging their feet – it escapes; the balled up screen, the little humming ball of electricity that had been building up, and it spills into the air as the same time as the attroshin is finally free.

It's not a scream – so much as a howl, or a wail; the sound of an animal as a tire rolls over its back, as it's body hits the road with a dull smack, and it's intestines are crushed momentarily; the one final noise that manages to escape on its dying breathe – forced out through broken and liquid lungs.

And of course, as that electricity spills out into the air, others just have to follow, because now, his body can try to sustain itself – can try to inch back together and patch up the ripped skin, which it does in a primal effort of arching, one shoulder, the left, peeling back from the earth and debris and failing to do so, with the exception of a few inches, and his right caves into the ground, pressing and sinking – his head tossed back; eyes squeezed shut once more, mouth spread open, in a endless vast carven in a wail.

A wail that has long since gone silent; and a gasp quickly takes its place as his body sinks back against the earth, done with its signal spasm – for now, he knows there are more on the brink; he can feel them, hovering and looming at the edges of his skin, waiting, praying and whispering that it's for the best, but he knows, even if he can't see them with his bleary, tear filled eyes that those are nothing more than well covered lies.

His back sinks into the ground, and in that moment; he can feel every single fleck of unnatural material in his body, the jagged, crushing once-engine pressing around his ribs, grinding them truly into dust, and the little flicks of metal that had gotten lost and found his body as a place to land – and as he pulls in a breath, his skin vibrates, and sings, it travels on several different wavelengths – and he can feel each knot in those endless strings, each thing gone wrong; each little scrap of debris crammed inside his now broken and fleshy body, coated with his blood.

And he knows he has to get them out; all of them, save the exception of the few, star like – the visible stars, over head; not the ginourmous burning balls of gas he has seen up close an endless amount of times – in shape, the little pieces, those that can later be scrapped out when he has the time, which is something he doesn't have now.

He lets out a breathe, one he hadn't realized he'd been holding – and this time, he watches it form in front of his face; slowly slinking together in a gentle stream of smoke, and continuing upwards; on and on, a sliver of gray-white, sometimes blue if the backdrop can get close enough. He watches until his breath is gone, until he can no longer see it; and then he breathes again, pulling in some air and closing his eyes – tears and liquid meshing together in one socket, blurring his vision even more so.

He's come to the conclusion the trying to clear it will result in an endless struggle, so he lets it remain shut; instead focusing on the cooling sweat on his forehead – a sensation he has felt several times, some in pain, but more recently in a joyous act. And more recently, he hadn't been lying on the ground, half crushed.

The cooling sweat, as it trickles down the sides of his face – mixing with the sharp red lines, also carries memories; flickers and flashes of vivid sun sets, shades of orange and yellow – tinged with purple, all circled around a single dot, a flare of light - and those images, are almost comforting. As close to comfort as he can find in this moment.

He exhales softly once more, his body twisting slightly – but failing to move more than a few centimeters, because if he could come to except it, he truly is _trapped_. Half stuck, underneath an engine, with a pole slowly sliding and migrating its way into the center of the top part of his thigh – his mind whispers that he should probably do something about that, while logic spirals and melts around his mind, arguing that he should focus on clearing his shoulder, and destroyed gut first, before attempting to remove the pole from the deep flesh of his leg.

But as he attempts to focus on it – and finds himself unable to, because that part of him is gone, the skin is nothing more than distant echo of touch – he also finds that logic no longer needs to be applied to this situation, buried deep within the woods, nameless and endlessly lost.

So, with that he pushes himself slightly upwards onto one elbow, his right sinking into the earth, sliding and breezing through a pool of blood, but he grits his teeth and jabs the crook into the ground a bit harder to keep from falling back; and he manages to stay upright in a lop slotted part of way.

And then, with the other hand he reaches forward – fingers out spread, extending into the darkness, dripping with the lack of hope as well as coated with it along the edges; feeling and prying for something more, for the end of the stick, and eventually he finds it; his fingers curl around it, bringing it to a halt, finally – and just like that, he's got his own little personal circle of acid imbedded inside his leg.

Along with more proof, that he's going nowhere soon.

His chest begins to fade; the need for oxygen a distant thing, a faint, burning echo – the background noise of the pain singing through his body; traveling on every wavelength that creates his flesh. A small puff of air – close to a sigh – brushes past his lips, slowly crawling out of his mouth; he pulls in another breathe after that, the same amount of seemingly unnecessary air.

Exhale, inhale – and with every little snitch of oxygen, the noise only builds; blooming and itching to life where the air gently skids past – and it grows; coating the roof of his mouth and the bottoms of his metallic coated teeth, and it grows; increasing in size – turning into a giant mass, a snarling ball of knotted up points in time; sound, endlessly ruin and broken, and it's growth can only lead to one thing; it's destruction.

And as it cracks inside his mouth, shattering and pressing against any flesh it can reach – it tumbles outwards; into the crisp, dense air; a screech that develops into a scream which only continues tumbling on into a howl, and a wail; all wrapped up in a never ending scream, which continues to remain the inedible under current, the steady backdrop for all those noises that leave his mouth.


End file.
